


Roses

by jonsastan (lilzipop)



Series: Jonsa Week [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Brief threats of rape, F/M, King in the North Ned Stark, Ramsay Bolton is His Own Warning, Wildling Jon Snow, wildling!Jon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-21
Updated: 2019-11-21
Packaged: 2021-02-18 11:08:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21510064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilzipop/pseuds/jonsastan
Summary: “Stark could be right.” One said, biting into something that had been cooking in the fire. “We never see him south of the Wall, and he never fights those fuckin’ crows like his father used to.”Jon stood, burying his knife into the elk flesh before moving to the fireside.“What does that southern kneeler say about me?” He asked, meeting the eye of every man and woman there. The freefolk had no monarch, no royal family, and yet Jon had become King-beyond-the-Wall after his father.King of Stone and Ice and Snow.- - - - - - -Jonsa Week - Day Four: Songs - {Myths} - Lies
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Series: Jonsa Week [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1548010
Comments: 14
Kudos: 204
Collections: JonsaWeek2019





	Roses

**Author's Note:**

> Day four of Jonsa week and I used the prompt "Myths". It's a half retelling of the the 'Bael the Bard' myth.  
> Please forgive my mistakes, my work is unbeta'd.

Jon was skinning an elk when he overheard the fireside talk. 

“Stark could be right.” One said, biting into something that had been cooking in the fire. “We never see him south of the Wall, and he never fights those fuckin’ crows like his father used to.”

Jon stood, burying his knife into the elk flesh before moving to the fireside.

“What does that southern kneeler say about me?” He asked, meeting the eye of every man and woman there. The freefolk had no monarch, no royal family, and yet Jon had become King-beyond-the-Wall after his father.

_King of Stone and Ice and Snow._

“Nothing.” The man who’d been speaking said quickly, hiding his face behind a horn of fermented goat’s milk. 

“Stark’s been calling you a coward.” Tormund said, meeting Jon’s gaze. “Says he’s scared you into staying on this side of the Wall.”

“Do you think I’m scared of him?” 

Tormund shook his head as he answered. “No, but I was with you the last time we went over the Wall.” Tormund grabbed his own horn of goat’s milk.

Jon nodded, staring into the flames. He knew power was a solid as snow on a mountain side. The smallest thing could cause an avalanche and Jon didn’t intend to be buried. 

“Guess I’ll have to prove them wrong.” 

~~~~~~~~~~

The King in the North, Eddard Stark, was a solemn man. He looked Northern, sharing some of Jon’s own features. The only other person on the dais was the princess. She did not look truly Northern, though she was beautiful. Her hair was not just kissed by fire but seemingly made of it, and her eyes were the pure blue of a newly melted river. She’d smiled softly at him as he offered his entertainment services to her father. Jon watched almost enthralled as she whispered into her father’s ear before the King had accepted his service. 

Jon had played some southern songs he’d picked up over the years and the court danced, including the princess. She had smiled whilst dancing with the first man, older than herself, the King’s age, wearing blue-green and a merman sigil. 

The second man made Jon scowl. He was the princess’ age with dark hair and eyes of such a pale blue they looked almost white in some light. The princess had a solmen, blank stare when his hands had touched her, and when he’d leaned in and whispered in her ear, Jon thought she shuddered. 

“Apparently the King is considering Lord Bolton’s proposal for the princess’ hand.” Jon heard one man whisper. Jon glanced and saw the whispering man gesturing to the man leading the princess in the dance. 

“Aye?” Another man answered. “I heard the King was looking at an old Northern family.” 

The first man laughed before answering. “That rules Manderly out!”

Jon tried not to cringe at the marriage rites of the south. 

~~~~~~~~~

The feast was soon announced and Jon followed the Lord and Ladies into dinner, his fingers dancing over the lute he’d stolen on his way south. 

He tried to locate the princess, but could not catch her auburn hair amongst the sea of people. He started when he heard a gentle cough beside him. 

“Your grace!” He exclaimed, before bowing at the waist, his fingers never ceasing to move and pluck the lute strings. Her eyes watched his fingers with a sense of wonder in her eyes. He liked the way she looked at him as he played. His people appreciate his skill with the sword, his skill as a soldier, a hunter, a warrior, but this, making something full of joy and love, the simple notes of a song, it was something he enjoyed but seldom indulged. And the look she gave him made Jon wish to indulge forever. 

“You’re extremely talented, ser.” She said, her soft voice just audible above the rabble of the feast. 

“Thank you, your grace.” His eyes flicked from her face, to the plate of food she held in her hands. 

“Oh!” she exclaimed, she held the plate out toward him. “I was worried you would not have eaten.” 

“I’ll have to eat later, your grace.” He said, moving his lute to show he could not stop playing.

“They’re so absorbed in their own food and drink and wants they won't notice a few moments without music.” She moved the plate toward him again and, setting aside his lute, Jon took it. He sat on a vacant bench at the edge of the hall and was mildly surprised when the princess sat next to him. He ate in silence, watching half watching her from the corner of his eye. 

She was lovely, but many women were lovely. _She must have a kind heart to worry about the hunger of a bard_.

He ate his way through the food before exclaiming when eating a roasted honeyed carrot. 

“Oh gods! Have you tried this? It’s brilliant.” He turned to the princess and saw one of her eyebrows had been raised at him. 

_Kneelers don’t address their royalty like equals._

“Fuck.” He swore under his breath. He noticed her mouth quirk ever so slightly. “I mean, have you sampled-”

“You’re not who you say you are, Bael the Bard.” She interrupted, delicate finger reaching out to pluck a carrot from his plate. 

“I-Wh-” Jon’s eyes met hers. She was chewing on a small bite of carrot but her eyes were locked on him. “Aye.” He answered. Lies never did roll of Jon’s tongue with any sort of ease, especially when the object of his deception had such piercing eyes. 

“Then who is my father dining?” 

“Jon Snow.” She stopped chewing, both eyebrows raised in recognition of his name. A sense of satisfaction or perhaps pride spread through Jon’s chest. She remained silent and finished eating the carrot she’d stolen from his plate. “Aren’t you going to raise the alarm?” He asked, dancing on a knife's edge, for if she did, he would be lost. “Alert the guards? There’s a wildling in your midst, princess.” 

She smiled as politely as if he was some kneeler lord who’d complimented her dress. 

“A wildling who has partaken of guest rights.” Her eyes flickered to his nearly empty plate. “Even the free folk honour guest rights.” 

Jon couldn’t help but smile at the princess’ cunning courtesy. 

“Aye, that’s true enough.” He resumed eating.

“What brings the King-Beyond-The-Wall so far from his home?” 

“Your father calling me a coward.” Jon replied, turning his head slightly to see the Northern King on the dais. He did not look like a man to brag and boast, but Jon knew looks could be deceiving. “Saying he’d scared me into staying in the True North.” 

The princess let out a laugh that bordered on a snort of disbelief. 

“Well, you have my apologies for a wasted journey, for it seems the gossip beyond the Wall is about as accurate as the gossip here.” He turned to face her. “My father said he had not scared you into staying beyond the Wall. He said it was merely a matter of time before the next raid. I believe he was attempting to convince some of his lords to discuss a treaty with you, your grace.”

“Your grace?” He questioned, a teasing tone lacing his words. 

“You are Jon Snow, King-Beyond-The-Wall, are you not?” She teased back.

“Oh that I am, but it’s you southerners who insist on all this Lords and Ladies and your graces.”

“Winterfell is not Southern.” Her tone took on a mildly defensive note.

“Anything beyond the Wall is Southern.”

“Anything beyond the Wall is wild.” Jon was taken aback by the almost wistful tone in her last words. 

“Would you like to see the wild, your grace?” He asked

She smiled a soft sad smile at his courtesy. 

“Just Sansa. Please, just call me Sansa.”

“Would you like to see the wild, Sansa?” He liked the way her name tasted on his tongue. Different and beautiful. 

“I would love to see the Wall, and beyond.” She turned to face the boisterous hall, the soft, sad smile still on her lips. “But I doubt my future Lord Husband would approve.”

“He doesn’t need to go.” 

Sansa laughed and Jon felt a warmth spread across his chest, the kind of warmth that came from stolen ale and soft furs. 

“I imagine marriage is different amongst the free folk.” Her voice was soft, but audible.

“Aye, it is. We don’t barter and trade people.” 

“I’d rather be traded than stolen.” Her voice was quick and cold as steel. 

“Stolen don’t mean the same thing in the True North.” Jon said, picking at some food from his plate. “At home, stolen means the other person has a chance to say no, fight back. You don’t get stolen unless you want to get stolen, most of the time. You have a choice in who you let steal you.” He glanced at her. “Do you get a choice, Sansa?”

He knew he probably shouldn’t have asked that. But her beautiful eyes and her sad smile and the taste of her laughter made him yearn for more, yearn to see her truly happy. 

“Women seldom have any true choice.” She stood, her sad smile turning playful as she turned and curtsied to him. “Your grace.” 

She disappeared into the feast.

~~~~~~~

Jon had begun to play again when he overheard the men talking. 

“How goes you attempt at plucking the Winter Rose?”

“The little bitch is proving harder to charm that I had hoped.” 

Jon turned his head casually and observed the two men talking. Both were dressed in the colours of House Bolton, their ghastly sigil embroidered on their chests. Jon recognised one as the man who had been dancing with Sansa, the man with the pale eyes. He continued speaking.

“Once she’s plucked the king with have no choice but to accept my father’s proposal. I’ll visit her chambers tonight.”

Jon scowled.

“And if the princesses does not wished to be plucked by you?” The other man asked. 

“Her wishes don’t matter.” The pale eyed Bolten replied. “She’ll do as her future husband demands.” 

Jon gritted his teeth as a slow burning rage filled his stomach. He moved away

~~~~~~~~~

“I thank you for your service, Bael.” King Eddard Stark said as the feast came to a close. “Of course you shall be paid for you service.” He raised a hand and people began to move as a bag that looked weighty with coin came into view. 

“Your grace!” He stepped forward and bowed deeply, almost theatrically. “I am honoured to have been in your service this evening. I ask for only one thing as payment.” 

King Stark closed his fist and all stopped moving. Jon saw Sansa seated beside her father. Her eyes were trained on him, her mouth quirked ever so slightly as their gazes met.

“And what is that?”

“The most beautiful rose in the North.” There was a silence for a moment after Jon’s words. “I hear the glass houses of Winterfell grow the most lovely winter roses in the world.” 

The King’s lip curled into an almost smile. 

“Then flowers you shall have.” He turned to his daughter and Sansa smiled truly and brightly at her father. “Have the most beautiful roses cut and arranged for Bael, please Sansa.” 

~~~~~~~~ 

The air was chilled but not as cold as the True North, Jon noted as he walked quickly and quietly around the yard. He knew he was probably making a mistake that would get him killed, but he was not one to sit idle.

He’d watched as the princess and her handmaidens had made their way to her chambers, noted which door they had entered and waited until the handmaid's had left. Then he waited a little longer. Only when the castle was beginning to settle for the night did Jon make his move. 

He stood now below a window that would lead into the room the princess had entered. He looked around. With a few careful hand and foot placements, Jon was eventually resting, precariously, on the edge of her windowsill. Curtain’s blocked a clear view, but he could just make out her movements by her auburn hair.

He tapped lightly on the window. He heard a rustle of movement and the window was opened gently. 

Her hair was long and loose, falling about her shoulders. Her form was covered modestly in a thin white nightgown, and Jon tried not to notice her body react to the cold wind that entered with him.

“Good evening, my lady.” He said, still perched on the sil. 

“Good evening, your grace.” She replied, moving and beckoning him to enter. She moved across the room to a large painted screen and pulled a grey woollen dressing gown around her form. Jon gently closed the window behind him. 

“Jon.” He corrected absentmindedly, his eyes darting about the chamber as he dropped his lute and his bag to the floor, careful not to crush the roses that were his payment.

“Would you like a drink, Jon?” She asked, moving and pouring a goblet of wine before he could answer. 

“Aye.” He said, moving toward the large fire in her fireplace, sinking to his knees before it. He pulled his gloves from his hands and held them close to the fire enjoying the pin pricks of feeling returning to him. A cup of mulled wine, still warm, was placed in his hands and he glanced up at Sansa. 

She held a cup of her own in her hands as she sank onto the fur rug before the fire, close enough to him so that their legs were almost touching. Her hair seemed to glow in the light, absorbing and taming the flames and warmth. 

Without thinking about it too much, Jon reached out and caught a strand between his fingers. It was soft and a fine texture. 

“Kissed by fire.” He muttered.

“Pardon?” She asked, not pulling away from him.

“Your hair,” his eyes were still fixed on the soft, shiny lock between his fingers, “Free folk call it kissed by fire. You’re considered lucky in the North.” 

“Are you here to steal a good luck charm, Jon?” She asked in a low voice. Jon’s eyes flickered up to meet her gaze. It was steady and strong. She was not afraid.

“Do you want to be stolen, Sansa?” He replied. 

She moved then, placing her cup away from them, turning her back to the flame and inching closer to him until their thighs were pressed together. Her face was more in shadow now, but her hair seemed truly luminous. Her fingers reached out and cupped his cheek. They were cold on his fire warmed skin and he almost shivered. Her delicate digits traced the scar that ran down his face before brushing through his short beard. 

“I might want to be stolen by you.” He felt his own breath hitch slightly. His eyes shut and he leaned into her touch for a moment.

“I can’t steal you.” He whispered, the words causing him more pain than he’d anticipated.

“Why?” She whispered back. Jon opened his eyes and moved closer to her, pressing his forehead against hers. 

“Where would we run to, princess?” He could smell the spiced wine on her breath and wondered if the taste lingered on her tongue. “Where could we go that you father would not follow?” 

“I could steal you.” Her nose brushed his and his eyes floated shut once more. For a second Jon was tempted to say yes. To allow this lovely, intelligent, beautiful woman to steal him away from a life of relentless harshness; but he was no kneeler, not even for her. 

“I couldn’t be a kneeler, Sansa, not for anyone.” 

He heard a breath escape her lips and his heart ached for the pain his words might have caused. He felt her hand leave his face and suppressed the urge to follow it. But the coolness of her fingers was replaced by the gentle touch of her lips to his cheek. 

He half opened his eyes, turning his head to watch her as she pulled back slightly. Slowly, gently, with faltering movements they met in a soft kiss, lips brushing. There was a pause, Jon allowed her the time, the space to pull away, but she did not. Instead she moved closer as if being drawn to him. 

Their lips met again in another soft kiss, this one longer than the last. And again and again, gentle caressing touches that were new to both Jon and Sansa. 

When Sansa’s tongue brushed his lower lip, one of his hands rested on her waist, the other travelled up her back, pulling her closer as the passion and fervency of their kisses increased. Sansa shifted slightly and Jon helped her as she moved to straddle his lap. The hand that had been on her back slid up into her hair as her own hands ran down his chest, up his back, until he felt them undo the clasp of his cloak and tug at the ties of his jerkin.

“Sansa.” He muttered as he pulled away from her. “Sansa, I can’t steal you.” His forehead was still pressed to hers, his hands holding her close to him. 

“But I want you to steal me.”

“Where would we go?” He asked again, giving into the temptation to kiss her neck. He enjoyed the small gasp his lips on her flesh caused. 

“Nowhere.” She replied, her own hands coming up to tug gently at his hair. “We stay here, hide deep in the crypts.”

He pulled away to look at her. Her lips were slightly swollen from their kisses but her eyes were alert and unfazed by lust. 

“What?” 

“The crypts of Winterfell.” She repeated. “They are large and deep. We could take some supplies and hide away there until we’re safe.” 

He stared at her for a moment, wondering if she truly wanted to be stolen, if she truly knew what she was choosing. 

“I want to steal you Jon.” Her lips pressed to his cheek. “I want to be stolen.” Her lips pressed to his other cheek. 

Jon agreed.

Later he paced as he watched the moon rise high into the sky. It was nearing the time Sansa had told him to sneak down into the crypts. 

_Brilliant, and beautiful, and probably the death of me._ He thought, his fingers running over the soft embroidery of her pillow case. 

He glanced out the window and saw the full moon was bathing the yard in a soft cool light. 

_It’s time_. Jon carefully placed an item on the pillowcase before jumping up onto the windowsill, his bag and lute strapped to his back. He looked back quickly before scaling down the wall. 

The blue of the winter roses were bathed in the light of the moon, flecks of snow already fluttering in the window. 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and Kudos are my bread and butter! :)


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